


In Memoriam

by helsinkibaby



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Heartbreak, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-16
Updated: 2005-01-16
Packaged: 2019-05-01 19:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14527479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: Ford comes across a drunk Carson.





	In Memoriam

**Author's Note:**

> Written after seeing Teryl and Paul onstage together at SG8

“No lights.”

 

Coming as it does from a darkened room, the voice makes Ford jump. Then he frowns, because he knows that voice, though he’s never quite heard it sound like that before. “Doctor Beckett?” he asks, just to make sure, and the voice that’s Beckett but-not-as-he-knows-him laughs mockingly. 

 

“Well, m’name is on the door, and I’m sittin’ on this chair… so, I s’pose it would be logical to assume that I’m me,” he says, and Ford’s eyes narrow still further, because even without being able to see Beckett – _especially_ without being able to see Beckett – there’s only one assumption he can make. 

 

“Doctor, are you drunk?”

 

Again, there’s that mocking laugh, and while Ford obeys orders, doesn’t put on any lights, when he walks into the room, he opens the office door as widely as he can, so that the light from the med lab beyond pours in. It doesn’t do him much good, because Beckett has pulled the chair as far away from the desk as possible, the back spine flush against the wall, and his face is more or less in shadows. What little light hitting his skin lights him from below, classic bad-guy-in-the-movie lighting, and looking at Beckett like this, Ford understands why so many directors use that trick. 

 

Beckett is one of the most even-tempered and garrulous members of the Atlantis team, someone who can be relied upon to keep his equanimity even in the most trying of circumstances. 

 

Ford’s never seen him look so… shattered is the only word that comes to mind, with it the realisation that he can’t imagine what could make Beckett look like that, nor does he want to. 

 

“That, Lieutenant Ford, is a query that requires a medical conclusion,” Beckett replies, leaning back in his chair, swivelling from side to side, the hinges of the chair creaking ever so slightly, the sound adding to the eeriness of the whole experience. “Luckily for you, I’m a medical doctor…” 

 

“And I don’t need to be,” Ford mutters, moving to the chair on the opposite side of the table from Beckett, leaning forward in an effort to see him better. He regrets it instantly, because not only does it not work, but he gets more proof that he was right. “What the hell is that?” he asks, recoiling at the stench of alcohol that’s coming from the open bottle on Beckett’s desk. “Rocket fuel?”

 

Beckett leans forward, takes the bottle in his hand and refills his glass with a liberal splash. From somewhere, Ford’s not sure where, he finds another glass, pours a far more miserly dose in there, slides it across the table. “Granny Beckett’s _poitín_ could power a Puddle Jumper, no doubt about that,” he says as he pours, “But it’ll put hairs on your chest… drink up lad.”

 

He raises the glass of whatever-the-hell-it-is, knocking back a gulp, and Ford tries to follow suit, but gags at the first tiny sip, shock supplanting disgust when he places the taste. “Moonshine?” he asks, placing the glass back on the table. “How the hell did you get to bring moonshine with you? And what’s going to happen if Doctor Weir sees you like this?” Because he can just imagine her reaction, lips thinned in anger, shoulders and back stiff, eyes glinting with fury, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere near the eye of that particular storm. 

 

The chair wheels squeak as Beckett moves forward into the light, and Ford sees from the redness of his eyes and the dark shadows underneath that Beckett’s been here for quite some time. He gives Ford an exaggerated wink, a knowing grin. “Let’s just say General O’Neill let it slip past,” he says. “And as for the other, I’m not on duty tonight… so as far as I’m concerned, that means that good doctor can bloody well f-”

 

“I get it.” Ford holds out a hand before Beckett can finish that sentence, because knowing his luck, Doctor Weir would walk in, see them both with glasses in hand and promptly throw them both into the brig. Beckett stops obediently, taking another gulp of his drink, and the ensuing silence allows Ford’s whirling mind to catch up. “General O’Neill knew?”

 

Another slow nod from Beckett. “The General’s an understandin’ man,” he confides. “Knew I’d need it today.”

 

Now we’re getting somewhere, Ford thinks, leaning forward in his chair, listening intently. “What’s so special about today?” he asks, and this time, when Beckett laughs, it’s not that mocking laughter of moments earlier. It’s softer, infinitely sadder, and it makes the hairs stand up at the back of Ford’s neck. 

 

“An anniversary,” he says quietly, and it’s only then that Ford realises that he’s holding something – a photograph – in his hand. Even then, he only realises it when Beckett slides it across the table, just as he did with the glass of moonshine, only infinitely more interesting – and also, notes Ford internally, not as poisonous. 

 

He takes the picture, holding it up to the light so that he can see it, adjusting the angle a couple of times before he can finally make it out. It’s well-worn, as if it’s been handled often, the shiny paper crumpled and cracked at the edges, thumb and finger prints clearly visible around the centre of the print. It’s a photograph of a woman sitting on a couch, looking at a teenaged girl who is sitting on an armchair at the other side of the coffee table. The girl’s hands are spread wide; she’s obviously in full story-telling mode, and the woman’s head is thrown back with laughter, hands pressed together as she claps in glee. She must have been moving when the picture was taken because her red hair is a blur of motion, and even sitting in this dark little office in this place so far from home, looking at only this picture, Ford can see that her smile could light up a room. 

 

“She’s beautiful,” he says, handing the photograph back to Beckett, and when the other man takes it, his sigh echoes around the room. 

 

“Aye lad… that she was.” His finger reaches up, tracing, Ford knows, the contours of the woman’s face, and a small smile plays around the very edges of his lips. “Not that she’d ever believe me when I told her that… she used to tell me that I was tryin’ to flatter her.” He shrugs. “Course, I was… but that did’nae mean it wasn’t true.”

 

Ford thinks for a moment that Beckett’s almost forgotten that he’s here, and he rolls the glass between his hands, wishing that he could take a drink of it, knowing that he’s not going to – he likes his taste buds just fine, has no desire to kill them off completely. Still, it’s almost as comforting to hold it in his hand, because whoever this woman was to Beckett, it doesn’t take a genius to work out how it ended. 

 

He’s surprised though, when Beckett looks up at him, tells him, “She’s the reason I’m here, y’know,” because that just makes no sense. His confusion must show on his face, because Beckett nods once, continues, “We met at the SGC… she was a doctor there. CMO, as a matter of fact… sight to behold, it was… her there, barely over five foot tall, eyeball to navel with half the men in the place, but give her a hypodermic needle and she’d have them quakin’ in their boots…” Ford can smile at the image, knows that Beckett is a million miles and more away, his voice trailing off, lost in memory. “She used to look in on me from time to time when I first started there, make sure I was settling in ok… things just grew from there. We couldn’t tell people that we were together of course… it would be frowned upon.” This last was said with the utmost gravity and seriousness, as if he was impersonating what someone higher up the chain of command would say to them, and at any other time, Ford would have smiled. He’s finding it hard to smile now though. “So we were careful, and we didn’t let anyone know… though some people did.” A smile, real this time, broad, as if he’s recalling some teasing that went on. “Most people did.”

 

Ford smiles as something that Beckett said earlier finally slides into place, making sense. “Like the General.”

 

Beckett’s gaze meets his and he gives a mock salute. “Like the General.”

 

He knows he shouldn’t do it, but Ford’s curiosity gets the better of him. “What happened to her?” he asks, and he regrets it when Beckett’s face falls, when he looks down at the picture again. 

 

“She went through the Gate,” he says. “She didn’t do that much… she always got so excited when she did, could hardly sleep the night before… there was a fire fight… she was working on a soldier…saving his life… when she was hit.” He swallows hard, looks down at the ground, then reaches for the bottle and pours another glass. He fills it to the brim, not spilling a drop as he raises it to his lips, which Ford finds impressive, and when the glass impacts with the table again, it’s half empty. Beckett’s face never changes the whole time, and Ford finds that even more impressive. “They say it was quick… that she never felt it… and she died saving someone’s life;I know she’d like that... but…”

 

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to, and Ford doesn’t speak either, just sits there quietly, waits for him to continue. “At first… I didn’t know what to do. After. Because in the SGC… I kept waiting to see her. So when the posting in Antarctica came up… I went. Cassie had just started college, so she told me gettin’ away would do me good… and when this came up… she told me I should go. Told me that her mother would have jumped at the chance… and that I should too.” A bitter smile, a sip of his drink. “Wise beyond her years, that lassie.” 

 

Which at least spares Ford from asking who the girl in the picture is, and he nods. “Do you think she was right?” he asks, and Beckett shrugs. 

 

“I have to, lad,” he says. “Otherwise… what am I doin’ here?” 

 

There’s nothing Ford can say to that, so he uses the silence to study Beckett, noticing that even if Beckett’s imbibed a considerable amount here, if anything, he looks more sober than he did when Ford first entered, certainly sounds calmer, more controlled. Maybe, Ford thinks, this conversation is doing him some good, so he asks the next obvious question, just to make sure. “And this all happened…”

 

Beckett sees where he’s going, doesn’t let him finish. “One year ago today,” he confirms. 

 

Ford nods. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, wincing at how ineffectual the words sound, but once again, Beckett looks up, meets his gaze and nods once in acknowledgement. 

 

“Me too, lad… me too.” Ford stands then, and Beckett’s eyes grow wide in surprise. “Where d’y’think you’re going?”

 

Ford clears his throat awkwardly, gestures with his thumb towards the door. “I thought I’d leave you alone…”

 

“Not before you drink a toast with me,” says Beckett, and Ford is about to search for a way to graciously refuse when he sees the other man’s eyes. They are raw and pained and curiously sober, and Ford sees, like it belongs to someone else, his own hand reaching out to grip his still-full glass. 

 

He raises it in the air, and as he does, something occurs to him. “You never told me her name,” he says, and that same sad smile lights upon Beckett’s face. 

 

“Her name was Janet,” he says quietly. 

 

It’s a beautiful name, and Ford considers commenting on it, dismisses anything he can come up with on the spur of the moment as far too trite. Instead, he inclines his glass slightly towards Beckett, Beckett doing likewise. “Well then… to Janet.”

 

Beckett brings his glass to his lips, but before he drinks, he stops, extending the glass again, tilting it just a little bit further. “To love,” he corrects.

 

Ford smiles, tilting his head. “I’ll drink to that.”

 

The moonshine sears its way down his throat, making him cough, making his eyes water, and Ford almost escapes noticing that Beckett seems amused by his plight. “Gimme that back,” he says, holding out his hand and waggling his fingers for emphasis. “Waste of perfectly good _poitín,_ that.”

 

Relieved, Ford sits back down, leaning back and making himself comfortable. “Tell me about her,” he invites, and until the bottle is empty, Beckett obliges. 


End file.
